I’m reading a book with a few friends called The Common Rule by Justin Whitmel Earley. (Short review: it’s great.) This past week we read a chapter on the importance of having friends who know you deeply, friends who can ask “Is there anything you aren’t telling me?” and expect an honest answer.1 Whitmel writes about vulnerability and accountability. And he writes about sin:

“In Genesis, God told Cain that sin was crouching at his door, wanting to rule over him (Genesis 4:7). I used to think that story was about someone else. Now I see that it’s about all of us.”2

As I read, I felt weird. I agreed with everything Earley was saying, but for some reason it felt a bit foreign, like reading a language I used to be fluent in but had since forgotten.

It took me a bit, but I realized what felt off: I don’t talk about sin much anymore.

—

In high school I thought I was the worst. I was such a sinner, covered in the filth of my daily betrayal of God.

The water I was in stressed the sinful nature of humanity. Total depravity and sinners in the hands of an angry God and all that. I deserved hell, full stop. I prayed Paul’s prayer in Romans 7 all the time: “Who can save me from this body of death?"

One night, on the way to a youth group retreat, a spiritual mentor played me a Mark Driscoll sermon. I don’t remember it exactly, but it was something along the lines of “nine reasons you’re an idiot.” I just remember how sinful I was and how perfect God was.

I had never cussed or sipped alcohol, but to me, sin was everywhere, and it felt all consuming.

—

I shouldn’t say I don’t talk about sin much anymore because I still talk about it and write about it. However, it’s almost always corporate sin, never personal. Systemic things like racism and sexism and classism.

I read a lot about that kind of sin, and I talk a lot about that kind of sin too. But the personal sins, the things I’m not proud of and wish weren’t a part of my life? That stuff just doesn’t sell like it used to.

—

The weight of the shame I lived under was too much.

I was convinced I wasn’t even allowed to like a girl because that would be a distraction from God. Everything in me had to be sold out for the faith, otherwise I was just a sinner pretending to be a Christian.

I was in an accountability group in high school. We focused so much on sin; looking back, I’m not sure if I was worshipping God or sin management.

Dear reader, I lived with so much shame. So much.

—

Each week in church we have a time of confession. Each of us sits in our pew and confesses our sin to God. Afterwards, we are absolved.

But my confession remains between me and God. There’s no one to mediate or hold me accountable. Just the same pew, one week later, waiting for me to stack up my sins and give them to God again.

—

I understand the theology of total depravity conceptually. The greater we see ourselves as sinners, the greater the freedom we will experience in the grace of God.

I get that.

But, in practice, I worry that concept just creates a bunch of Christians who hate themselves.

At least, that’s what happened in my life.

—

Because I write about social inequality and am against a president who uses Christianity as a cudgel (among many other things), I generally swim in more progressive waters online.

I read a lot about racism and sexism and classism.

But I hardly ever read anything about personal sin.

I don’t think I’m alone. Personal sin seems to play a minor role in lives like mine; things like therapeutic language and systemic inequality have taken its place. We acknowledge personal sin’s existence without building structures of accountability. We fail to write about it because (1) it’s weird writing about your sin and (2) we don’t want to be pegged as a fundamentalist.

Maybe I shouldn’t use “we” here; maybe it really is just me.

But I have my suspicions.

—

I worry that in our attempt to rectify the shame-inducing harms of total depravity, we have somehow gotten rid of the very real reality of sin. Paul’s words in Romans 7 about doing what we hate and not doing what we know we should do are still true. And his final rejoinder is still true too:

“Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

We still need saving from sin, and Jesus is still the one who saves. But that doesn’t mean we must go back to all the shame.

—

The doctrine of sin is vast and deep and incredibly nuanced, and any 1,000 word Substack will fail to capture its complexity.

I am not a proper theologian. Nor am I a proper pastor. But I am a committed Christian trying to work out his faith with fear and trembling. And I don’t think I can do this in constant shame-fueled self-condemnation or in an ignorant belief of a world without personal sin.

—

What if there was another way?

I started trying to answer this question, but my post became unruly. I’m going to keep thinking and praying about this and get back to you with more nuanced thoughts… :)

In the meantime, how have you lived in this tension? How do you have a robust theology of sin and grace? How do you throw out the shame without throwing out the sin, too?

I’d be grateful for your thoughts!

Share

Venmo (if you are feeling crazy)